Broken: Book 1 of the Scars and Sorrow Saga (4 page)

Mother, fucking damnit! She found them when she cleaned my room! That is why she was crying and wanted to talk. Fuck, she is catching on. God, I need to do something to fix this and it needs to happen soon.

I quickly brush through the tangled curls and wrap it in a tight bun at the nape of my neck. I splash some cool water on my face, disgusted with my appearance. My eyes are sunken in and the smoky color is seared beneath my once vibrant orbs. I am 18-years-old but I look more like 40 in the mirror. Grossed out by the look, I brush my teeth and pull on a pair of black cotton shorts and keep the same pink tank top on. I don’t bother with a bra because there is no need for it where I am going. I grab my keys and purse and hit the road before anyone can notice.

I hate this part of town. Rigdon is small, but there are still bits of it that are considered
ghetto.
Concord Street is in that part. I pull my old car into a parking space and take a deep breath knowing what is about to come. I walk into the liquor store and the air is so thick with cigarette smoke, you cannot see to the back of the store. I reach the item I yearn for with thoughts of my release, for it is all I need to deal with this moment. I head up to the counter and freeze.

Fuck, he’s here.

“I’ll take her from here,” says Davis.

He walks over to me, slipping the pint of vodka into his pants pocket with a smirk. He leads me outside and around the back of the store. There is an old green dumpster on the north side of the building and an abandoned and overgrown alleyway behind it.

“You okay, baby?” he asks.

Is this virginity stealer serious? Am I okay? I really don’t understand why he is asking such a question. Does he think he has done no wrong? I mean, I know I never verbalized “NO”, but I was crying. Tears flowed from my eyes from the beginning until the end. They represented terror, uncertainty, no self-worth, pain, sorrow, and most of all… loss.

“No, I am not,” I muster.

“I can fix that,” he says, and before I can protest, his lips are attacking mine once more.

• • •

I have made my way up each stair towards my room. With every movement I am aware of what happened only fifteen minutes ago. I am raw and in pain. I have decided that I am done. With everything. This is the end. Leaving will be painful for a short time for the people that I love, but staying in their lives as fucked up as I am will only cause more. I find my way to my bathroom and grab the first pill bottle I see. I mosey back into my bedroom and shut and lock the door. I set the pill bottle on top of the desk that displays pictures of happier times. I look past them without any thoughts.

I pull out a piece of notebook paper and grab a pen and write…

Momma,

I am sorry for letting you down. There were so many things I wish I would have done differently. Unfortunately, I have made many bad decisions. I am sorry for that. I love you more than any amount of words can describe. You are a beautiful and nurturing mother. I should have told you more often.

Rosalynn,

You make me so proud. Seeing your round belly pregnant with life makes my heart smile. I am sorry that I couldn’t be a better sister to you. I love you, always. You are an amazing person and I know you will make a great mother.

Garrett,

The last thing I want to do is inflict more pain. I know being over there is not easy. I wish that I would’ve spent more time with you when we were in high school together. You always made everyone laugh. I love you.

Rick,

You came into my life as a stepfather, but now you are my father. You have done more for me since I was 12 than I can thank you for. You have put up with me during the tribulations and bad mistakes I have made and you have praised me at cheer meets and when I got straight A’s on report cards. You are an incredible man and my only regret is not telling you soon enough.

I wipe the tears from my face and fold the letter up nicely and place it on top of my desk. I open the pill bottle and dozens of bright pink tablets stare me in the face. Benadryl. I pour the bottle into my mouth and chase them to the bottom with a glass of water. I am instantly tired and stumble onto my bed and pass out hard to total emptiness.

Limbo is such a terrible place to be. You aren’t sure if you’re here or there, alive or dead, happy or sad. It’s a state of unknowing. That’s how I feel. I cannot see color or light. There is nothing surrounding me but my thoughts, the same ones that I tried so desperately to escape from. Too bad that didn’t work. Why couldn’t I just fall asleep and never wake up? Why is it impossible for me to find peace?

While stuck in this state, the memories that make my gut churn dance around, tantalizing me with their terror. The nights that haunt me are replaying over and over again like a broken record. I see Daddy laying in a pool of blood with a hole the size of a softball in his chest. His eyes are open but he isn’t breathing. He’s staring at me, but I can’t help him. I feel the sting in my tiny calf as the hammer slices through my skin when I anger Daddy. I sense the irritation thick in the air and the frustration radiating from his huge frame.

Then the most recent and painful memory is staring at me in the face. Why, though? I am confused. This is something I thought I was done running from. Why pain me with replaying what has already been stuck in my head constantly since it happened days ago? The look I see in my eyes scares me worse than when it happened. My brown eyes are lit with fear. Davis’ eyes are full of lust and want, a disgusting combination with a young girl that didn’t consent to his ways.

Just because I never said no doesn’t mean I wanted him to have sex with me. Were my tears not a clear indication? Was my trembling body not evidence of my terror when he ripped my shirt away from me as he took my nipple into his mouth? Were my struggling legs not a gesture of my disproval?

Then pain. Pure physical pain shoots through my veins. My gut churns to life, stirring, snaking, and contorting in a way I never thought was possible.

• • •

Marguerite Harper knew her daughter better than she knew herself. A mother’s intuition was always right, hers hadn’t failed her thus far. She knew before Rosalynn told her that she was with child. She felt her heartbreak before she received the news about Trent, Garrett’s childhood friend. It was like a sixth sense, and she never doubted it.

She was sure something was going on with her youngest daughter, Lyla. She had always treaded carefully with her, never sure why. Lyla was always a quiet child that grew into a beautiful young woman. Something had changed with her, and she was going to get to the bottom of it. She had to know what was happening with her baby, because as much as she wanted to deny her gut, she was certain that if she didn’t discover whatever it was soon, it would be too late.

Then she decided to do what all mothers do, snoop. She looked through dresser drawers and through picture boxes. She searched her daughter’s laundry and jeans pockets before she looked through her purse. Her search came up empty until she decided to rummage through Lyla’s desk. She picked through the photos one by one, smiling at the recollections from family trips and cheer meets. Then her hands found a plastic bottle. She pulled it out and noticed that the label had been ripped off. She opened the lid and counted twenty-three blue pills. Her heart sank. She knew her daughter had drank alcohol before, she received a drinking ticket the year prior. But, she never would have suspected that she would use drugs. Never. Not her baby, one that brought home near straight A’s and never missed a day of school. It happened to other people’s children, but not hers.

Marguerite took the bottle and finished tidying up Lyla’s room. She made the decision to give Lyla the chance to come clean on her own. She was going to ask her questions and give her one last opportunity before she spoke with Rick about her recent findings. What Marguerite didn’t know at the time of her confiscating the pills was this; the damage had been done and Lyla had her mind made up… proof that Marguerite’s intuition was spot-on.

• • •

My eyes blink open and my stomach empties its contents all over myself. I am dressed in an oversized hospital gown. The vomiting doesn’t cease, it continues and gets worse with each contraction of my stomach. I can’t focus on anything other than failure. I didn’t succeed. They know. They will all know what I have done to myself and I have to think of coming up with an excuse for my behavior, an excuse for my self-mutilation and attempted suicide. I cannot be honest about Davis, he’s the son of the former police chief who happens to be one of Rick’s best friends. Not to mention Davis is like a son to Rick.

My stomach is aching and turning, and even after the contents are emptied, I proceed to dry heave. My muscles ache and the throbbing between my legs is a grisly reminder of what set me over the edge mere hours before. I feel the tears prickle behind my eyes, and for the first time I allow them to fall freely as I see a soft-faced woman walking my way. I hope with every cell in my damaged body that she will help me make things right. I need to get a grip on life and count down the days as I chant my mantra,
ten more months until I am out of this hell. Just ten more months.

“Momma, stop it. I’m fine.”

My mother has been buzzing around me for the past month and a half like an overprotective bear. I can’t say I blame her. The thought of ever being responsible for another life terrifies me. I don’t ever see myself as a mother.

“Well, I just need you to understand that if you aren’t ready for this it’s okay. You don’t need to try to prove to us that you’re fine. It’s okay if you’re not, we can talk about it.”

“Mom, for the tenth time I am okay. Now stop before you give yourself a heart attack. You bantering me constantly isn’t helping.”

I try to convince my mom (along with my counselor) that constantly breathing down my neck and asking me if I am fine only makes things worse. After my attempted suicide, I had to face the demons that pirouetted around my mind. I was honest with Mom and my counselor about the girl that I see and the things that I thought about from childhood. It made sense to them, but I withheld the major factor, Davis Moore.

Word travels fast when you live in a two stoplight town. People usually know things about you before they happen (sarcasm totally intended). Most city folks have this façade that small town life is ideal. They think that you are free from harm and heartache and everyone sits on their wrap-around porches after the man comes home from a hard day’s work at the factory or coal mines and they drink lemonade smiling just like in Mayberry. Fuck, are they so wrong.

Davis caught wind of my attempted suicide and has left me alone since our last encounter behind the liquor store on Concord Street. Thank God, and I pray every day that it remains that way. Eight more months until I start the new life that I so desperately want. I hope he keeps his distance so I can continue to keep focus on my dream, getting the hell out of Rigdon and starting college at Loyola.

Nathan Wilcox is a senior at Rigdon High School with me. He’s nearing six feet tall, has shaggy blonde hair and a southern accent that can make any girl smile. He’s always been nice to me, but never overly friendly. We’ve managed the
hellos
and
how are yas
in the hallways at school and exchanged smiles in the passing during halftime when he sprinted past me into the tunnel to talk about what needs to change to make Rigdon High come through with a “W” the second half of the football game.

I never sought relationships with boys, ever. I didn’t plan on it either, at least not with any from
here.
But with my head on halfway straight, I decided to take a chance when I ran into him at Maple Lane Café. I was with my parents and he was with his. Rick being the social butterfly that he is, introduced us (as if he wasn’t positive that we knew one another in a class of 100). I smiled at him, a genuine smile. As our parents continued chatting, Nathan pulled me to the side and asked me on a date. A real date. I got excited and said yes before I had time to think. That was yesterday, and my mother has been breathing down my neck ever since, making sure that I am not moving into something too fast.

I haven’t cut my belly in 41 days. I am trying to be a better girl, but I feel the urge almost daily. It gets the hardest at nighttime when I close my eyes, trying so hard to let sleep find me. Instead the memories flash before me and I want to make myself forget, but I can’t. I’ve promised Momma that I wouldn’t hurt myself anymore, and I will continue to try my damndest to keep that promise. So far, I haven’t given into temptation, but it’s a ticking time bomb. Girls like me never really change, we merely go through phases of goodness and gloom. I happened to be on the upswing of things, so I might as well embrace it while it’s here.

I stand before myself in my bedroom, eyeing my wardrobe choice carefully in my vanity mirror. I won’t say that I look cute, because that is a compliment and I can never come to praise myself, but I will say that I look presentable. I’m wearing a jean skirt, bright pink flip flops with tiny rhinestones along the straps, and a white tank top. I grab my purse and head downstairs to wait for Nathan to pick me up. I’m a bit nervous, but happy. It’s nice to feel excited because I can’t remember the last time I felt a normal kind of excitement. (Please note that excitement over cocaine doesn’t count).

Five minutes later I see his figure walk up onto the porch. Before his fist can hit the door, Rick swings it open. Great, he is about to give the “
don’t fuck with my daughter because I’m a good ole country Daddy that owns a gun and a shovel”
talk
.
If he only knew what Davis had done to me.

Fifteen minutes later, a very nervy Nathan and I head into his 1970’s fully restored Royal Blue Chevy pickup truck. I hop inside and welcome the warm air rush over my cheeks. Then my song comes on. The Dixie Chicks start belting out
Not Ready to Make Nice
and I am finding it hard not to sing along to the lyrics. I feel him smiling at me as his hand brushes over the seat until it is locked with mine. My heart drums in my chest and jumpiness swims heavily in my gut. I am trying to compose myself. This is normal. Eighteen-year-old girls are allowed to hold hands with a boy, right?